Absolute Zero
by MissingTrees
Summary: Pairings include BA and CA. Takes place in Season 6. Buffy sees and experiences something tragic.


**Title:** Absolute Zero  
**Author:** Leena  
**Email:**   
**Rating:** R  
**Distribution:** Hello Goodbye,   
**Summary:** Buffy sees and experiences something tragic. Pairing B/A. Dark

Driving home, she thinks. A lot. But she's so tired, and that's all she seems to do anymore. She's so tired of thinking, saving, and doing. Everything is she; the universe is on her shoulders. Doesn't anyone ever think that could break a girl? Apparently not.

Sometimes you can go past the point of forgiveness, she reflects, as she steadily drives home. She thinks this as the stars stab into her from above. The space between LA is distant and barren, just California wasteland. She hates this drive. She hates when she has to make it, because she hates everything that lives, or doesn't live, in LA. Maybe she can go back to Spike when she gets home, shove him into a wall and give it to him straight. And still keep a chaste face for Dawn when she says goodnight. Always goodnight.

Some people eat, when they get frustrated. Her comfort food is fucking. Against walls, inside of crypts, in dirty alleys. Sometimes she feels as though she's made of glass, as though she could shatter into a thousand pieces at any second. But Dawn keeps her. She keeps her alive, and going. Pushing through the bubblegum walls of her life, the sticky web that she and Spike have built around her. The constant clouds that are weighing her down. Who knew that clouds could weigh so much? Fuck fuck fuck.

When she came back, it was harder than saving the world. Inside, she felt as though a giant knife had carved her out. When she drives, she thinks about clawing out of that dirty coffin. Inhaling the dust and the earthworms and her own death stench. She and Spike are really a pair, ready to fuck themselves to oblivion. They're also both dead, which definitely helps.

Then there was Angel. She never thought she could tremble in hate, rage, love, confusion. She hates these feelings, because they make her feel uncertain; they make her feel _human_. She's not supposed to be human, she knows. And perhaps that's the best reason of all for leaving her again. Even after begging. The tears were hot in her eyes; they burned her like searing ash. That's what she should have been, hot ash revolving inside of a kiln. Maybe celebrating in an urn somewhere. Instead she got empty words, empty hugs, an empty soul. Do I even have a soul? She thinks. And she drives. She hates him. Maybe even more than Spike.

The radio proves little entertainment as she drives. The rhythm is driving her up the wall. She wishes she could be young again. She feels so old, and worn out, and she's barely of drinking age. She doesn't want to think about what she heard, what she saw. She's so full of hate right now, she feels like black insects are burrowing under her skin. Buffy is ready to burst. And when she does finally have that melt down, she knows that Spike will break her, and she'll die again. But perhaps that's best for all of them.

She didn't know what she saw. Maybe she doesn't want to know, but still, it sinks down deep into her mind like soft earth. If she died, would anyone care? Would they bring her back again? Do I have the guts to kill myself? She nearly asks aloud. All that she can think about is that there are two men in LA that she hates more than anything, and they both need a good beating before she goes. Then she thinks of Dawn and her heel presses down a little faster on the accelerator. She needs to get home, her sister needs her. And she needs to fuck out the hate. Too bad she'll never fuck out the hate for herself.

Her tongue runs over her teeth. They're slick and shiny, and they taste bitter. How could she have forgotten this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that always came before him? She felt like she was boiling pasta inside of there, butterflies of all different colors invading her belly. And they're ramming themselves against the walls, ready to come up her throat and create tears if necessary. She hasn't cried in a long, long time. Probably not since the abandoned place, where she met the old Plymouth and its rusty grating. Then she left, with tear trails steaming on her face. She hasn't cried since. Is this a good time to cry?

She wants to get back at him, for loving someone who isn't her. Is that so wrong? She feels jealousy, raging jealousy only dulled down by her outer shell. Maybe her soul still does feel emotions, but her body just doesn't work anymore. My body isn't supposed to work. It's not supposed to work! She wants to scream, but she feels like she's swallowed a gallon of cotton candy. Maybe she could just go…maybe she could just confront him, and ask him. Maybe. Maybe the world will come crashing down, and she won't save it, and she won't have to do anything. She prays.

Three weeks and it isn't gone. If anything, it's gotten worse, like a sickness. She hasn't been sick since she was seventeen years old, and she saw the Kinderstod. She doesn't even remember how to be sick, unless it's her heart. She's so afraid that her heart is breaking all over again, and she doesn't know how to deal with this feeling. Maybe this is her penance, for being dirty with Spike. For whoring herself out to him behind everyone's back. Maybe this is why.

Daddy dearest and his sweet wife have called, finally. She went to see them before, and that's when she saw Cordy. He doesn't love me, is all she can think. And that might be the one that breaks her. But instead Dad calls, and he tells her about a dinner date that he'd like to share with her and Dawn, and of course, Cecile. Cecile is five foot six, with light brown hair and a dazzling smile. She's four years older than Buffy. Dawn hates this, but Buffy remains neutral. Buffy feels neutral about everything. Except the thing that she saw, the thing that tore her apart on the inside, like razor blades coming down her esophagus. It made her dizzy, and all she did was walk away from it, clenching her jaw, getting into her car, grating her key in the ignition.

Fortunately, Dad never found out about Buffy's death. But finally, finally he has called. Over the summer he found out about her mother's death, and probably did some grade-A mourning by fucking the hell out of Cecile. Buffy tries not to think too much about this. Her mother's death still makes her throat close up a little. She's destined to be like her parents, she thinks. She'll end up cold, isolated, alone. In a world that she'd died to save, but doesn't give a shit about her.

Dad called and told her that he wanted to finally see her tomorrow. He wanted her to meet Cecile. Now she slides into bed, and her bones feel like they're cracking. They're sore and worn down. She didn't patrol tonight. Is that wrong? She doesn't know the difference between right and wrong anymore; she can't tell. She wants to kill him and Cordelia, is that wrong? She sighs and her body sinks into her bed, despite the fact that she's at the lightest weight she's ever been. She can say that she feels empty because of him and what he's done, how much he's loved another woman, but she doesn't. It's no one's fault but her own. She hasn't seen Spike all day.

In the morning, she does see him, he comes into her room while she's getting dressed. She shoves him away, despite his numerous attempts to touch her. She says no, but it seems to be a foreign word to him. He tells her how much she wants it, how much she _needs_ it. He shoves her down on the bed and forces himself inside, and she chokes on her own saliva. Afterwards, there's a little blood, but nothing that she can't clean up. She puts on her underwear and slips on her dress, calling to Dawn as she does so. She knows that she'll have a black eye, but strangely doesn't care.

"Dawn!" She calls, zipping up her dress. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that she hates Spike. The evidence is the sharp pain between her legs.

Cecile is prim and pretty, and she wears cherry red lipstick. It was kind of just how Buffy thought it would be; distant, awkward. Dad fawns a lot over Cecile, how she wants her food, how she should have her napkin arranged on her lap. Dawn only stares disinterestedly into her food and occasionally scrapes her fork on the porcelain. Dad doesn't seem to notice. He asks empty questions with empty answers.

"How are you guys doing?" He says. But he never talks about her death, because that would be unreal. That would be horrible. He was never one to deal with horrible, that's why he always avoided his children.

"Fine," Buffy says quietly, and shifts. There's burning between her legs. And it hurts. For once, it _really_ hurts. It's one of the few things that she can actually feel in her life. The hurt. Was that rape in her bedroom? She can't be sure, but she knows that the bruises are forming on her body. And the blood is slowly seeping out, between her thighs. Oozing at a painful rate.

She forces the food down, as awkward silences ensue. Cecile tries to fill them up with chatter of her college years. Buffy sometimes forgets that her new mother is just out of college. New mother? No, Daddy's whore, more like it. No one could replace Mom, and no one ever will. Not Dad, not Cecile, not anyone else. Mom is gone, she's dead. I should be too, she thinks. So should Angel.

She doesn't leave LA immediately. She hates driving that dry drive home. But she hates it here too. Should she go see him? Maybe. She's not really in the mood for a confrontation right now. She doesn't know if she has any of the fight in her, despite the irrational rage and jealousy that she feels over them. Isn't that sweet. Aren't they the perfect couple? His curse is probably gone. They probably have lots of gratuitous fucking amongst their money. He lives in a hotel, I live in a shabby house, and I can't pay the bills. She closes her eyes and rubs them.

She thought she could just come here and see it again, and she would be okay. Instead, she lounges outside, looking in occasionally to see what's going on. She lurks. She wants to laugh at this, because that's what Angel used to do. Now he's some hero, or some bullshit like that. He's nothing like me.

Cordelia looks different. She's blonde now. Like me. She's cut her hair. Like me. She wants to scream and crush the pavement because she feels like something has been stolen from her. Many things have been stolen from her. But there's something that Cordelia doesn't have. She looks happy, like she can feel. She's laughing with a bald black man inside, and they're leaning on the counter, exchanging happy banter. Buffy wishes she could go back to those days, when the apocalypse was nothing more than some dust on her shoulder. Now it's everything. Fighting. Is. Fucking. Everything. Cordelia doesn't seem to care about anything. Maybe that's why he loves her so much. They could have dark little children together, and live happily ever after.

Suddenly nausea rears its ugly head inside of her belly. She's turning away from that scene, feeling like an intruder. Someone who has stepped in from outside, looking with sad eyes. This is something that she'll never have again, human and familial connection. Never. This is what makes her and Cordy so different. Cordy has changed, for the better. While I have changed for the worse.

She turns, and throws up her insides, desecrating the ground outside of his hotel. Now it's spattered with dinner. The dinner was tasteless anyway, she didn't need it. She doesn't need anything. Her throat convulses rapidly and her eyes water as she leans over, mindless of her hair. She can hear rapid footsteps coming from behind her, and her predator's senses make her body tense. But still, she throws up. Everything she has to give.

"Oh my God, Buffy!" She hears from behind her, and it's that sticky sweet voice of Chase, beautiful and blonde and voluptuous Chase. Mindless of everything around her, she wipes her face and stands up to see the black man and Cordelia looking at her. The man looks confused, while Cordelia looks concerned. She must have changed, she thinks. She must have, to have so much concern for me. Why is she even out here? "What are you doing here, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Buffy says with little shakes in her voice, "I'm fine."

"Do you want to come in…?" Her voice is lingering, with guilt and slivers of jealousy. Buffy can see it, she can hear it, she can feel it. No matter how much Cordy has changed, there are still core factors of falsity here. Cordelia is showing them now. She's being graceful, giving, when what she really wants to do is shove Buffy out in front of oncoming cars. Buffy knows this. She can feel the aftertaste of the vomit burning her, making fire in her throat and a nasty taste in her teeth. She looks head-on into Cordelia's eyes, trying to convey that she knows. She saw them. The kiss, the look. She's fucking lived it, it's not like she can't recognize it. But she doesn't say anything.

"Why don't you come in, you don't look so good. By the way, Buffy, this is Charles Gunn." Buffy nods towards him, but mostly just stares at the ground. She doesn't want to explain herself. She doesn't even want to be here. She's ushered into the giant, monstrous, elegant hotel. She wishes that she could just have a tenth of this elegance.

She always knew that he possessed poise, that he always kept things together. And yet, she's seen him at his worst, when he was coming apart. Thinking about how smart, how caring he was, almost makes her forget, and love him again, until she sees Cordelia's face, her hand offering her a glass of water. Then she wonders why she's here. Why the fuck did she even think about stepping in front of _his_ hotel? He might just end up with a stake in his heart today.

"What brings you to town?" She asks softly. She'll never be like Cordelia. Loved, cared about. Well, at least never again. She can never go back.

"My father," she rasps. She takes down some of the water, and her stomach does a flip in anticipation. She doesn't know if she can keep it down.

"Oh, of course, your father. How is everything in Sunnydale?"

"Good," she nods. There's really nothing else for them to talk about. Why is Cordelia keeping her here? Is it some kind of internal guilt that's telling her to make it all better? Nothing could make it better. Nothing.

"Well, Angel's not here. He's actually out hunting some demons with Wes…"

"Oh. I didn't come to see Angel," she manages to scrape out, and she knows that it sounds lame. But she didn't. She really didn't. A baby starts crying somewhere in the background of the hotel, and Buffy wants to clap her hands over her ears and scream. But she can't let it out, because then she'll look insane. Cordelia gets up and excuses herself. Is that her baby? Not with Angel. He said that he couldn't do that. Somehow she senses though, somehow she senses that something is going to make the bottom drop out.

Cordelia comes back, after a terse silence where Charles Gunn rifles through papers on top of the counter. Buffy sinks a little, back into the cushions of the couch. They seem so inviting, much more so than her own dismal and dark house.

There's a baby in her arms, is her first though, before she feels as though she should stand. As though there's someone regal being brought out of the room behind the counter. Cordelia smiles down at him, as though she loves him, as though she's his _mother_. For a moment Buffy relaxes, realizes that it must be her baby with Wes, or maybe with Charles. She's not sure. Surely not with…

"Buffy, I'd like you to meet Connor," Cordelia says softly, cooing to the still-sniffling child. Buffy wants to reach out and touch him, but she's afraid. She's grown too tough for a child. Even for Dawn. Her day consists of fucking, not holding and singing to sleeping babies.

"Where did he come from?" It spills over from her mouth before she can even realize what she's said, and for a moment she's mortified.

She shifts uncomfortably for a second, and the baby makes a wet sound with his mouth. "He's…well…he, um…" She looks to Charles for help, and fortunately he steps in and offers.

"We found him," he says quietly, continuing to look at some case files. She stares at her water for a second, before setting it on the table next to her. Then she smoothes her dress down. It's time to go. She needs to get out of here before everything explodes.

"I should go," she says, and Cordelia stares her through narrowed eyes. She then nods. She needs to leave, and fast. Dawn is spending the night with Dad. She can just leave now and pretend like this never happened. Then she'll wait till she heals a little, and fuck Spike into the ground. At this thought she can feel the rips inside of her, little things that bleed. It hurts. She has to wear a Kotex, because a tampon would hurt too much. Aren't people supposed to go to the hospital for this? She thinks. But she's a Slayer, she can take it on.

She tugs on her dress a little, suddenly feeling conscious. She nearly knocks off the glass of water sitting on the edge of the table, but instead skitters around of it. She's like a scared animal. She nearly trips over herself, mumbling broken excuses as to why she has to go. She always has to go. But there's nothing to go to. No one is waiting for her at home, unless you count her boss and Spike. And both those people just want to fuck her over. One literally, one figuratively.

On her way out, she sees dark figures coming towards the hotel wielding weapons. They're too close, she thinks, and she knows who they are. Who else would they be? How many people do you see walking around LA at ten thirty-three PM with a crossbow? She tries to walk faster, but instead she hears them trail her.

"Buffy?" Calls out a crisp accent, and she wants to punch that British mouth. If Wes hadn't said anything, she probably could have continued on her way. She doesn't need this right now. If Wes hadn't opened his mouth, Angel would have ignored her, and she would have been fine with that. He obviously has a family. Complete with a kid. That he found. Yeah right, she thinks, and grits her teeth, that's total bullshit.

She turns, because she knows that if she doesn't, it will be rude. How will it be to face him, after their "secret meeting"? She even got chicken on the way home, but that didn't help. The chicken tasted like paste, and her tears were coating her throat. She had stopped crying on the way home, before she got to the KFC.

It should be awkward, but it isn't. There's only a stilled feeling, as though she's in slow motion and everything else is in high speed. She looks at them with fake surprise, but doesn't smile. She doesn't want to be like Cordelia. She'll never be like Cordelia. She'll never be enough for Angel. She steps forward, seeing the shadows slide away from the two men as they approach her. They are now in front of the Hyperion, and no doubt Cordelia and Gunn are watching them. She doesn't look in the windows, or the doors, instead just focuses on Angel. He studies her, then looks away, looks uninterested. Wesley, ever oblivious, offers a giant smile and lifts his crossbow in greeting. She nods a little.

"Here for my father," she explains with a dry mouth. She doesn't know why. She shifts a little and feels the little rips inside of her. They ache, but they're healing. Slowly. She doesn't know why she needs to explain herself.

"And Dawn?" Wes asks. Not really much of a conversation. Short, concise, with no words from the large man at Wes's side. Well, it's all really for the best, then. Anything he says could only serve to infuriate her further.

"She's with my father. She's staying the night. I'm going to drive back to Sunnydale, then come here tomorrow."

"Nonsense!" Wesley barks, and she flinches a little. Partly due to his tone, and partly due to the fact that she knew this cordial behavior was coming. "You'll stay at the hotel till tomorrow. Then you can pick up Dawn and you won't waste time or gas."

Despite the fact that she feels sick just being in Angel's presence, seeing the way he's uneasy around her, she nods and follows them inside. A sadistic part of her actually wants him to feel bad, to pay penance for betraying her. Is he really betraying me? She thinks, as they wander inside. Cordelia hides her surprise, but not well enough, because Buffy can see. She can see the jealousy and she mirrors it, but hers is tinged with pain.

Angel hasn't said anything to her at all. She doesn't know whether this is good or bad. Maybe it's bad. Maybe he hates her. She considers this with a cocked head, inside of her hotel room. Do he and Cordelia share a hotel room? As far as she saw, they didn't. Cordelia said she had her own apartment to go back to. Maybe he shares the apartment with her. She lies back on her bed and stares up at the hair thin cracks traveling like vines all over the ceiling. She's sure that if she looks hard enough, she can see the stories that they tell. What has happened here, who has been born and who has died. Someone is dying in this hotel right now. But she doesn't have a disease.

She saw the kiss earlier today, and the look and the smile. Did he ever smile for her like that? She isn't sure. Everything they had was always surrounded by pain. Of course, there were the precious moments, before she lost her virginity to a monster. But back then it was as though their love didn't exist, because they weren't quite ready to own up to it yet. At least, she feels this way. He probably prefers that it didn't exist at all. Cordelia and Angel seem happy together, smiling and laughing. Unfortunately, Angel and she were never allowed that luxury, to simply love and be happy. There was always something edging its way into them, pulling them apart. A part of her thinks she should be happy for Cordelia and Angel. Another part thinks that she should kill them both. This part is what Spike has put into her, and it's growing like moss all over her subconscious. Her scruples are now sickly and worn down.

She hears a light knock on the door and makes no move to get up.

"Come in," she says weakly. God it burns. Sometimes when she thinks hard enough, the burning can go away, but it comes back often. She needs to change soon, or else the blood will show.

Angel closes the door quietly behind him and leans against it for a second. He looks so grated, so tired. She doesn't understand. Why does he look so happy around Cordelia but so sad around her? Is it because she's here? She can't be certain, so she just flops back on the bed and waits for him to speak.

"Do you need anything?" He says quietly, as though nothing has ever transpired between them. She refuses to believe this; no matter how much time has passed. There have always been things between them. Good, bad, love, hate. It doesn't matter. They can't ever just be strangers. 'How could you?' she wants to say, but the words won't come because she can't be selfish like that. Sometimes she thinks she deserves to be selfish for always being so selfless, but then she rationalizes.

"I don't know what I need," she says quietly, and she doesn't mean for it to come off that way, but somehow it does. Like she means something else. She quickly changes the subject. "Actually some pajamas and some clothes for tomorrow might be good. I'll return them all, of course."

"Of course," he echoes quietly, and she can't read his face. She sits up and he staggers forward a little. She winces at the burning. God, it hurts. His face moves a little, and his expression shifts from unreadable to pained.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replies coolly, "I'm fine."

"You don't smell okay."

"What?" She replies like she doesn't know, but she does. She was never very good at playing dumb.

"Are you bleeding?" His brow becomes dark and slashed across his face as concern worms its way in. She doesn't think that he ever has concern for anything anymore. Not her, at least. Go back to your precious Cordelia, she wants to shout. Go back and be the happy family while I work at a shitty burger joint. Then his face shifts even more, this time to anger. "Why do you smell like blood and Spike?"

"No blood, see?" She says, standing up and spinning quickly. But he's always been smart, and he can put two and two together. It's weird the way he does it; his mind just connects like an erector set. All the pieces fly together.

"What did Spike do to you, Buffy?" He asks, and suddenly, she wants to see him angry. It means everything in the world to her. She _needs_ to see him pissed. He deserves it.

"He fucked me," she says with no emotion. "On my bed, this morning."

"Buffy…" he warns, but it's too late, she's already gone into her bathroom and closed the door. He sees some bloody tissues in the trashcan near the bed and flinches before turning and leaving. She leans against the door on the other side and lets out a long, tarnished breath. She can't tell if he even cares or not. But when is that new?

After her shower, she comes out and sees a shirt and some sweatpants lying on the bed. She doesn't have a change of underwear, but apparently those have been provided as well, via Cordelia, she suspects. They're a little big on her. Did Angel get these? Does he have access to her underwear? She rips the underwear off violently. She can't, she _won't_, wear Angel and Cordelia's clothes together. Instead she slips on the sweatpants that are still too big, even with the drawstring as tight as it can go. The shirt goes down to mid thigh, and instantly she's enveloped in him. She lies down on the bed and promptly closes her eyes. She doesn't sleep for a while.

She wakes up in the middle of the night. There's a stickiness that makes her thighs slide and she can feel wet spots all over the mattress. She groans as copper hits her nose. She can also see him, sitting in a chair across from her bed. She sits up and scoots back a little, the pain inside of her making her hiss. She can't hide it anymore. He's in gameface, and the blood is everywhere.

"You need to go to the hospital," he growls, then he starts pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a large cat.

"I'm fine," she trembles, until she realizes that she _isn't_ fine. She'll never be fine and she can't hide that anymore. In the dark, the blood on her mattress looks like pools of oil.

"You are not fine," he says. She can feel the pain, oozing. "You are going to tell me about Spike. Then we're going to the hospital."

"No," she whimpers, partly in negation and partly in fear. Her trembling hand catches the sheet that covers her, and the bloodstained sweatpants.

"Yes, Buffy. Tell me."

Her fear makes her a little irrational. "We fucked, okay? We had sex, we rutted, we screwed. Every chance we could get. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Why?" He sounds deadly now, like he might kill her. She thinks that he's the one who's betrayed her. He's the one with Cordelia. How can it be all her fault? He's not the immaculate one here. She wants to yell at him.

"Because I hate myself," she says in a low tone that warns him to stay away from this.

"What did he do last time, Buffy?" She looks away now, ashamed.

"It was my fault."

"What. Did. He. Do?" Her body slumps a little and she shivers against the little shavings of pain that shoot into her spine. She figures that now is a good a time as any. There's nothing left.

"He raped me, okay Angel? This morning, on top of my bed, he raped me, before I got ready to come to LA. Are you happy now? Do you like hearing that I got raped? Does it make you feel better?" By now he's shaking, and she's scared. Instead of hitting her, or screaming, as she expects him to do, he picks her up from the bed and starts carrying her out the door. She assumes they're going to the hospital.

"I can walk, Angel, put me down," she squirms.

"I know you can walk, but you're not going to," he tells her. There's blood on his crisp white shirt.

She is awake for the vaginal exam and it hurts so much she can hardly stand it. She nearly bites through her lip, and they won't allow Angel into the operating room. He grows angry and yells at the doctor, and she just sits there mutely. She thinks that he has no reason to claim her. At all. He has no reason to be here, he should be helping Cordelia. He should be kissing her touching her, making _her_ feel better. Buffy just needs to heal by herself. That's all she needs.

Instead they give her some minor anesthesia and leave her on the table, with her legs spread open. She whimpers and bites her lip till it bleeds, but she doesn't scream. When it's all sewn up, the doctor tells her to be mindful of the sutures. He says come back in three weeks and they'll be ready to come out. She wants to rip them out right now. The doctor says that she should go to the police and report a rape, and she says okay. Then he helps her into a wheelchair.

Buffy keeps insisting that she doesn't need a wheelchair, but Angel doesn't hear her. Instead he wheels her out toward the car, picking her up carefully, and dutifully. Then he sets her in the front seat, and she can't even believe that it's only one in the morning. It seems like three days have passed. Tomorrow she's going to have to get Dawn home somehow. She can't stay here for any more than a day; patrol needs her. She _needs_ patrol.

It only takes fifteen minutes before they arrive back at the hotel. He parks in the back, and she can see Cordelia shuffling around papers, her bright blonde head bobbing to some unheard music. Buffy sighs and leans her head back on the headrest. Cordelia comes out, not seeing Buffy in the seat yet. She just wishes she could get past this drama. If only Spike had waited to rape her…damn it, she just had to go to the hospital tonight.

"Angel, I thought we were training tonight, where were you…?" Buffy is barely even shocked by this. She should have known. She should have always known. She guesses when two coworkers work close enough, there's something that's bound to happen. She guesses.

"Cordelia," there's guilt resonating in his voice, and Buffy can feel it. It swims past her, through the air. "I'm a little busy right now, maybe later." She half-expected him to just throw her out on the sidewalk and go inside with Cordelia. They could do Tai-chi, or Tae-Bo, or something. Instead Cordelia sees her, and her expression hardens a little, just for a second before she nods in understanding and goes back inside. Buffy doesn't know why she should be so jealous; she's the one who has Angel. All Buffy has are some cheap fucks and work. And of course, the Slaying. But that has disintegrated in her mind like so much flour for now. She can't even remember what a 'stake' is.

In her bed, or maybe it's his bed, she can't tell, she's laid down, and the covers swallow her up. The prescription bag crinkles as he opens it and pulls out two bright orange bottles with her name printed on them. Funny, she doesn't even remember stopping at the pharmacy to get the medication. She doesn't know how he could sign for her anyway. Oh well.

"Painkillers and your antibiotics, Buffy," he says softly. She doesn't acknowledge him, but instead closes her eyes. He knows that she's not asleep. He always knows. "You need to take them. I have some water," he says. She can feel the cup near her face but chooses to ignore it, despite the stabbing pain inside of her. She feels pain, but more than that she feels shame and embarrassment. They never went to the police, and Angel is still angry. He's actually shaking. She sits up and takes them dutifully, before rolling over on her side. She feels like she's wearing a diaper, but it's only to stop the bleeding. Yet another factor of her embarrassment.

He slides his hands up her arms but she pushes him away lightly, keeping her eyes closed. She doesn't want him to touch her. "Go climb in bed with Cordelia," she rasps without realizing it. She feels immediately trite afterwards, because she can feel his sadness when he pulls away. She hears the door shut, and his footsteps padding away on the pristine carpet. Sleep claims her, as the antibiotics kick in, and the room is spinning.

In the morning someone is gently tugging on her shoulder. His shirt has slipped down, leaving her collarbones bare. They're cold. She sees Wesley's face, his concerned expression, and wonders if Angel told them all. Did he make a big show of it? Did he say all the synonyms that she used for sex? Maybe. He's changed; she doesn't know him anymore. She doesn't know _what_ he would do in this situation.

"Breakfast is ready, Buffy," he says softly, before leaving the room and giving her her privacy. She notices that the she is in a different room than last night, and her pants had been changed, probably sometime during her sleep. She is wearing sweatpants, again. She sighs and swings her feet over the bed, before noticing a few weapons in the corner. This, obviously, is Angel's room. She doesn't understand why he would put her in his room, when there are at least thirty other rooms in this place. She wants to apologize for staining his mattress, maybe offer to pay for it.

As she starts to walk there is ripping pain through her lower abdomen, and she grabs the side table with a great gasping heave. This hurts worse than anything she could have imagined. Also, her throat is dry and scratchy from the antibiotics. She goes into the bathroom to clean herself up, before tying the strings on her pants again and staggering to the hallway. She can barely walk.

She braces one hand against the flowery wallpaper as she walks down the hallways towards the staircase. She doesn't even want to think about the pain that she'll have to endure when going down the stairs. She's already late picking up Dawn as it is, she doesn't need any further distractions. She grasps onto the banister tightly as she reaches the staircase.

Raising her leg is like having a million puncture wounds inflicted on her all at once. She lets out a groan that she can't control and her face contorts in pain. Before she can attempt to take a step down again she hears thumping on the stairs and sees Angel's large, dark form moving towards her in a blur. His hands are on her before she can even cry out and an arm goes to the back of her knees. She feels kind of helpless, and it makes her embarrassed. She hates that feeling, the feeling of vulnerability. Especially amongst the prying eyes of all his cohorts.

He takes her down the stairs slowly and she flinches. "I have to leave," she says weakly, and he only says, "I know." He sets her down at the bottom of the stairs and asks her if she'll be okay and she nods.

"I need to go pick up Dawn." She keeps croaking this out as if it will save her from something, and Angel only says nothing. "Let me just get to my car," she says, trying to struggle away from his gentle hands.

"No, Buffy," he says firmly, at the base of the staircase.

"Yes," she protests.

"You're not driving like this. You're on painkillers and antibiotics. Which by the way, have you taken them yet?"

"No," she says feebly, then "I don't need to take them! I need to get Dawn and go home. She needs to go to school, and I have work and Slaying. I can't just go off whenever I feel like it. I have bills, and people who live in my house and-"

"Buffy," he cuts in gently. I'm sure that everyone won't mind if you take a day off. You were _raped_ after all." All of the sudden, the venom is back in his voice. It's cutting, and she nearly recoils from it.

'I deserved it' she almost says, but clamps her mouth shut on the words. "You don't understand, Angel," she whines, "I have _bills_ to pay. I'm poor as it is, I can't-"

"Shhh. I'll reimburse you for it, okay? Just settle down, you'll rip your stitches."

"My stitches," she echoes hollowly. "What am I supposed to do while I'm stuck here? How is Dawn supposed to get home?"

"How about we call Xander, and tonight he'll come pick her and you up. Then you can come get your car when you're off the antibiotics. Or better yet, I'll drive you home tonight."

She looks away, hurt. She doesn't understand why he gets to be so caring when he's betrayed her. He left her. Twice. He. Left. Her.

"Look, you can rest and heal during the day and I'll drive you home at night. Call Xander to pick Dawn up."

She takes his cell phone and punches the numbers violently, upset with him and how right he is. It isn't fair that he gets the perfect life and gets to forget all about her. It isn't fucking fair at all. She gives short answers to Xander, not telling him the specifics. She doesn't want him to know about the rape. She couldn't stand it. It's bad enough that Angel knows, and she doesn't want to incite any more male anger. After she sets the phone down she's at a loss for what to do. She guesses she's pretty much stuck on the couch.

She hears Angel's voice coming toward her again, but this time talking to the others. She can't quite focus on what he's saying. He comes closer and picks her up easily, and she's sick of him carrying her everywhere, as if she's his bride or something. She's his nothing. _They_ are nothing. He doesn't have the right. No one has the right. He ignores all her glaring and continues to take her upstairs. He sets her down on the bed, _his_ bed and takes a deep breath that he doesn't need. He doesn't need to fucking breathe, why does he create the illusion? She thinks. She's angry, with everyone and everything. And she's hurting. Bleeding internally and aching inside.

"We need to talk," he says quietly, and she feels anger sever through her.

"I think we're a little past talking," she says bitterly, and a little sob is attached to the end of it.

"No, we _need_ to talk." He looks nervous and scared, and from his stance he looks unsure. He also looks angry, and she's certain he hasn't forgotten about her admission to the rape. She just rests back on the pillows and pretends to be as helpless as he thinks she is. She rolls her head to the side, preparing herself for what he's going to say. She's ready for the shame, the accusations, the hurt.

"First of all," he says, pulling a chair up next to the bed, "tell me why you're – _were_ sleeping with Spike."

"I already told you that," she says quietly, still not facing him.

"Look at me Buffy." She refuses, until he touches her cheek, and it burns her.

"I wanted to feel something. I guess…I felt a little too much. I can't complain about the sex though."

"Did he abuse you?"

"It was nothing that I didn't want," she tells him.

"Until the rape," he counters, and she doesn't answer. But she looks at him like he requested. Despite her shame, she still looks at him, right into his eyes. "I can't believe you would do this to yourself, Buffy. I know how he is, I know how he manipulates."

"He-he loves me. He's told me several times."

"It's not love," he says harshly, maybe even with jealousy, and she closes her eyes. "He doesn't _love_ you, Buffy. He fucks you. He uses you because of some sick obsession. Demons don't love."

"Whatever. I use him too. I'm fully aware of what I'm doing. It's just kind of like…an addiction for me."

"And you don't even care if you get raped?"

"I don't care about anything," she says dully, with no hesitation. It's the truth. For once, she's able to be completely open and truthful with him, and perhaps it's because of that very reason: she doesn't care. About life, death, love, hate. Her life consists of providing and Slaying.

"You should. You should care, Buffy. Don't settle for less than you deserve. You don't need some creature fucking you. He doesn't even have a _soul_." Now he sounds desperate, and she feels a twinge rising inside of her heart.

"I know."

"I can't believe that he…he _raped_ you and you don't even _care_."

"Angel, stop. We don't need to have this talk now." She pauses for a second. "I didn't even think you'd care," she whispers, unaware that he hears it for a second.

"How can you say that?" She's almost afraid of his anger; she's forgotten about him after so long.

"How can _you_ be so hypocritical? You're condemning me for fucking the hell out of Spike while you're kissing Cordelia. When were you gonna tell me _that_ one, huh? When were you going to let that out? Do you think I wouldn't care? Am I not enough for you?" For once, she feels more invigorated than she has since her death. She feels powerful, that she can make him feel so low. She knows that she shouldn't revel in this feeling, but her whole body aches, and she's so sick of lying and hiding. He doesn't say anything.

"You wanted to talk Angel, so talk! Tell me about your glorious relationship. It's a hell of a lot better than mine, I'll tell you. The best I get are a few kisses and maybe a whipping if I'm good!"

"Buffy, this isn't about me-"

"Fuck you, don't say that," she hisses before he can get a sentence out.

Everything is building up inside of her, and she knows that she may just try to run away before she gets everything out. Then she would have to go back to the hospital, and she would probably cry. That wouldn't be good.

"Do you love her?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Shut up, Angel." She has no time for his games. She's sick of being a shell, of burying everything deep underneath her soil. "Just fucking tell me. You know I don't love Spike. Now answer me before I have to leave tonight: Do. You. Love. Her?"

"I…I don't know," he says honestly, and she sighs out into the cool air conditioning. "Okay."

"Buffy…"

"No, it's okay. I have no right to be mad. Not even jealous. This is your life, you're a grown man, it's okay. Just…let me sleep, okay?" She doesn't like the little girl voice, but it's all she can manage. Suddenly she feels drained, as though he just drank from her. And it wasn't even a real two-sided conversation. She obediently swallows her medicine and is swathed in sleep. Before she falls she feels lips on her forehead, and she wants to cry.

She wakes up to Angel this time, telling her that they need to go. She nods silently and he insists on helping her up. He grips her forearm gently, leading her out to his Plymouth. Strangely, seeing it again chokes her up, because she can still remember the taillights telling her goodbye when he left. She hates this car, she decides. She doesn't want to see it leave ever again. She just doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want to go back to Doublemeat Palace. She doesn't want to face her rapist.

She sits on the nice leather seat, feeling her sweats slide against it. He was adamant that she wear them instead of her crumpled dress. He said that she needed comfortable clothes, and she could only avoid his gaze and nod her head. The sooner they get back to Sunnydale, the sooner she can forget about all of this and never have to feel the pain of seeing Angel again.

She tries to stay silent through the whole car ride home, but she finds it increasingly difficult. She stares at the wasteland of California as they drive. There are no words, and Buffy supposes this is because there is nothing that she can say to make it better. More importantly, there is nothing that he can say either. Should she feel betrayed? Why does she feel wrong? Perhaps, she thinks, it's because he said she was the only one. When you're conditioned to this kind of preferential treatment, you're bound to feel a little jealous, she thinks. She ponders this and comforts herself with it. That's why she's jealous, that's a _justification_ of why she should be hurt. And yet, it doesn't help. There's still something clawing at her insides, desperate to make its way out of her mouth. But she sits still and tries not to rip her stitches. She'll have to make the trek back here in a few weeks, when she's ready to get them taken out. She wonders how much blood there will be. How much will it hurt?

She rolls down the window without asking him. He doesn't seem to mind, he just keeps his dark eyes on the road ahead. Occasionally his hand squeaks on the leather steering wheel when he moves it. She remembers how his hands used to feel, poised above her body. How she could feel the radiating coolness instead of the warmth. How much she loved it. Does Cordelia feel that way now? It turns her stomach to think.

She inhales the sandy wind as it flutters through the window and into her lungs. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to remember the times in high school. It was hard, but it was incomparably easy to now. She thought that all the pain back then had broken her. She took those days for granted, she realizes. As least she had this man by her side, ready to defend her. Ready to be her strength and her love, never judge her or hurt her. Instead, he left. What else did she expect but for him to find someone else? Has he said the same words to Cordelia that he has to me? She wonders. She questions if their relationship was ever real at all. It seems so distant now, that she can barely remember what the mansion looks like. Angelus gave her pain, but at least she never fucked him.

"I'll, uh, I'll give these back to you as soon as I can. I'll mail them," she says faintly, staring at the sky and tugging on her clothes. He grunts in response. She slips further down in the seat, feeling like some kind of ant next to him. It's not just physically; it's the power that he exudes around him. She had forgotten about that. She thinks that at one time he was hers, and it makes her shiver. Her stomach hurts, and it almost feels like cramps, but she knows it's not. She thinks that she'll probably never be able to have children, but that's okay…Slayers weren't meant to have children anyway.

For the rest of the trip, she falls in and out of consciousness to the rhythm of the wind blowing into her window. She has strange half-dreams that leave her skin moist, some about the rape and some about Angel. She thinks that he can hear her, when she awakes with gasps, but he also doesn't care. His face remains placid, his mouth only a thin slash across his face. She sighs and turns over in her seat, seeing the familiar sign of Sunnydale fast approaching. She just wants to get there, to get their non-existent goodbyes over with. She now realizes why they never say goodbye; they're not real to each other. They're merely a relic, some deep-buried memory, a misty image. If you don't say goodbye to something, it doesn't exist. She decides fairly early that they won't say goodbye this time either. She'll step out of the car, clutching her crumpled dress to her chest, and he'll drive away, leaving her only to inhale greasy exhaust. It's best this way.

He navigates the stealthy car through twisted labyrinths of streets, crawling slowly towards Revello drive. She's surprised that he can even remember where it is; it's been so long since he's made the trip. At least two years. And even then, he met her next to her mother's grave.

Still confused with slumber, she gradually feels the car come to a stop and shut off. She lifts her head and feels trepidation slip inside of her. She's not sure what to do. Should she just get out and run towards her front door and not look back? She isn't surprised to see that she's trembling, that her whole being feels weak. She hears a crinkle from her side as he clutches her prescription bag in his hand. She prepares herself to take it from him, before the handle pops on his side of the car, opening it. She's surprised.

"I'll help you inside," he says softly, and she's quiet. She grabs her dress and opens her car door as well. It's nice to see that his nobility hasn't left, at least, she thinks. That's one thing that hasn't changed about him. He still pities the lesser. No, that's not true, she corrects herself. He considers himself the lesser, and helps those who are like him. In any case, she becomes sick thinking that she should end up like one of his clients. She doesn't want a business deal.

He grips her forearm. She knows that this is innocent enough to be perceived as helping her, and not as intimate as touching her hand. She has the urge to slide his hand down, into hers, but she doesn't do it. Instead she climbs slowly up the driveway up to the front door, pulling her keys out of her purse in the process. He stands behind her, the bag in his hand occasionally making noise, while she fumbles with the keys and pushes them into the lock, grating the door open.

The house is cold and dark, and she suspects that Dawn is staying at Xander and Anya's. Willow and Tara also aren't home, and it gives her a feeling of terror for a second. If she had made the trip home alone, she would have to come home to a cold, and empty house. No doubt Spike would be waiting around some shady corner, ready to force her into submission again. She's grateful, for a second that Angel is here. No matter how awkward and hurtful the circumstances.

She flicks on a light, simultaneously trying to pull up the far-too-big sweats that are falling down. Unfortunately, unlike her fantasies, she doesn't feel romantic or sexy with Angel. She feels embarrassed and gross. She tells him politely that he can set down the bag on the side table, or maybe on the dining room table. He complies, and she wants to slump down in a chair and watch some TV, maybe doze despite the fact that all she's done all day is slept.

She doesn't know what he's doing here still. Maybe he just wants to soak in the nostalgia of her house, touch and feel recognizable objects.

"Are you hungry?" She asks. "We can go get some blood from the butcher. There's one that's open twenty-four hours over on Twelfth Avenue. I mean, we can drive there if you feel like you need to eat."

"No," he replies simply, standing in her living room. She doesn't know what he's trying to accomplish. Maybe hurt her more? She's not sure if that's possible. She just wants to lie down.

"I thought maybe I could make you some hot tea," he says almost timidly, as though he doesn't deserve her. This confuses her.

"Ah, sure," she says, unable to refuse him, despite her hatred of him. She doesn't like the pity act, she doesn't like that it's building up to a letdown.

He gestures to the couch in front of the television, as though it's his house and she's the guest. She's too tired to fight, to confront, to truly let out her feelings, so she does as he so gently asks. She lays her head down on one of the cushions and remembers a time long ago when her mother soothed her, comforted her after a night of hard Slaying. She misses her mother, and she's not sure if that will ever go away.

She hears clinking in her kitchen, and she can smell him everywhere, and for once she's kind of glad. Parts of her are still torn up about him, but she's glad that he's here, and someone can take care of her. She always has to take care of herself, and it's nice to have someone who can care for her and also match her strength. She knows he'll be leaving soon, and it kind of makes her ache inside. She doesn't want to feel this way about him still. It complicates her further, and it makes her feel feeble. Isn't love supposed to be beautiful, all rose petals and kittens? Apparently not, she deduces, while she watches late-night television.

In a few minutes, he carries out a steaming cup of sugary citrus tea, and she can smell it wafting towards her. There is milk and cream on the side, and she's surprised that he still remembers where everything is. How can he remember this, her favorite tea, just the way she likes it, and forget how much he loves her? It's not fair.

She takes the delicate china, her mother's china, and studies the fine blue patterns all over the cup. It feels like delicate and warm bone fragments in her palm. She takes a sip, and thinks about how she never had tea so good before. Of course, he makes perfect tea. He does everything perfectly. Except handling her feelings, he never did that so well. They always ended up shattering all over the floor. Somehow, he always managed to do it over and over again, to find her and crush her. Worse than Spike? Her mind whispers, and she thinks no, nothing could be worse than Spike. Angel never hurt her _that way_. He's not capable of that.

He sits next to her feet on the couch, and they're silent for a while. She doesn't think that the silence is companionable, yet it's not awkward either. The TV rings hollowly off the walls, infomercials and repeats of 'Will and Grace'. After awhile, she wants to scoot down and put her feet on his lap, but she doesn't. She also wants to cry, but she doesn't do that either. Her throat has felt swollen for a few days now, a lump has formed there like calcite, and it won't go away.

His voice rings out suddenly, and she nearly jumps from the shock. "You need to take your antibiotics now," he says, and his hand brushes her bare foot. She nods, and looks up at him like a child while he goes and retrieves it. Why does he feel the need to stay with her, to serve her? He gets her medication and doles out the right amount of pills to her. She swallows them, and they go down easy with the citrus tea.

She can hear rain softly pattering down outside. It makes a wet and earthy smell. The scent drifts through the few open windows in the house, and a cool and moist feel condensates over her skin. She shifts a little, feeling her pain ease. Her eyes grow droopy, and blue shadows meld and intertwine with the flickering of the television. She barely recognizes that he's there anymore, until she feels large hands touch her feet. He must think I'm out of it, she thinks. And he's probably not far off. She hates the way that the medicine makes her droopy, but at least he'll touch her then.

She slips in and out and in and out and suddenly she's in her bedroom, and he's there. And his large hands are combing through her hair, rubbing against her scalp gently. She wants to reach for him, to let the pain go away, but her body feels like lead. She wants to ask him if he still loves her, but she can't move her mouth. Her body feels like it's under the ocean, and the dull ache between her thighs has subsided only a little. But that's okay, because he's here. She needs him, she thinks, more than anything.

She feels him slip under the covers, press his body to hers, hold her. She knows that she probably wouldn't let him do this regularly, but given her state, she's a little submissive. He's still touching her, soothing her, making the pain slip into the background and the drowsiness grab her with gentle fingers.

After awhile, the silence is broken by soft sounds at her side, a gentle purring. Then the purring becomes spiked with sobs, and she realizes that he's crying, and she doesn't want it this way. She just wants to hold him, to be held, to tell him what she feels. Instead she fucks herself to death with Spike. Her anger has evaporated towards Angel.

He can be with Cordelia all he wants, she thinks, he can love her more than me. I don't care; I just want him here now. I need him here now; I need him to take care of me. No one else can know about me. No one else can handle it. She knows that he shouldn't be crying. Even she can't cry at this point. She's nearly physically incapable. She's envious of his ability to cry, but she's also paralyzed with drowsiness.

"Oh God," she hears him say into her hair, and his arms are around her. "I'm so sorry. I feel…like I've betrayed you, Buffy." She can feel the tears on her scalp, running down. They're cool, like rain drops. "I'm so sorry. I was just…I was so lost with Connor being born and Darla coming back. But I love you. Please, just remember that I love you." Her mind is struggling to interpret everything. Darla? Everything starts growing fuzzy, slowly, and it's like a camera going out of focus. Her eyes slip closed, finally, to the music of his pleading in her ear.

She wakes at interspersed times. For the most part he's there, cuddling her close to his body as though he'd die without her. She doesn't know what to make of all of this. For a second, she's terrified in the short times when she's awake and he isn't there. She's so afraid that he's left her again, that she's gone. That she'll have to face this alone. Story of my life, she thinks, but she doesn't want it to be. She's so tired of carrying the load by herself. And sure, maybe that's the way a Slayer is supposed to live, but she's defied all the rules before. She slips back into sleep, wondering if she'll ever see him again.

In the morning, he's still there, and blinds are closed tightly on one side of her room. He's not trapping her, because his arms aren't around her, but instead he's nearly burrowed into her. His face is against her shoulder, his body pressed against hers. She sighs and stares with bleary eyes into the muted light. She wishes things were easier. That she could just love him and be loved in return. Isn't that in a song? She thinks, before she feels him move a little beside her. She should be disturbed by the way he looks like death, but he's too much like Angel for that. And she loves Angel. Demons and death and darkness and destruction all aside. God, what is with all the D words? Her head hurts and she lays it down next to his, feeling his nose against her scalp. This is the way it should be. This is the way it should happen each and every night. Not empty sex in crypts.

His eyes are open before she realizes it, and she's off in a daydream, idly playing with the sheets that are covering them both. Despite the fact that she isn't coated with medication, she still lies still. She wishes for peace for just a moment longer, just a little bit. But instead, he's staring at her, and making her shake with those eyes. They're dark, and understanding, when they're not supposed to be. They're supposed to be angry, and mean.

"I hate you," she says, and her throat feels like a zipper has been pulled up on it, because it's tight and achy.

"I know," he says in a way that kind of breaks her heart. She doesn't want this.

"You should get back to…Connor. And Cordelia."

"Buffy…" he starts in, but she doesn't know if she's prepared for this. She doesn't want him coming back out of pity. Her ideal scenario would be love. But she knows that love doesn't exist inside of her anymore. It died when her soul left her body. Love isn't real in her world. Suddenly she wonders why that should matter. Maybe she should at least try to talk. Maybe it's best to get everything out, before the inevitable non-goodbye comes. He should just save time now.

"Do you pity me?" She says tentatively, sitting up and pushing down her pain, deep inside. More will be coming soon.

"Pity you…what?" He sounds honestly confused, and she would kiss him if she thought it would mean anything. But Cordelia's face looms above her head like a ghost, and she can't make it go away.

"You heard me. Is that why you're here? Just because I was raped…well, it doesn't mean you have to take care of me. Trust me, I've gotten really good at taking care of myself," she ends this with a sour laugh.

"I don't pity you, Buffy. I know you're completely capable. It wasn't your fault…what happened."

"I think…it is," she says in stilted voice. "I think that I've been stringing him along for so long that he thinks he can just take what he wants without asking. I guess I can't expect a safety word with a demon."

"It's not your fault, Buffy." This time, when he takes her hand, she doesn't pull away. Not everything will be resolved by talking, she realizes. But some things will, and maybe that's the best she can hope for.

"Sometimes I think I still love you, Angel," she says softly, her eyes roaming the rumpled sheets before coming up to meet his. They're large and liquid, and wounded. She knows this look; she's seen it a million times before.

"I _know_, Buffy, I _know_ that I love you."

"Yeah," she says with a scoff, "sometimes it just doesn't seem like it."

"I left…" He trails off at this part, unsure of how to go on. She can tell, she can see that he's helpless. "I was so tired. And I knew that I couldn't handle you."

"Oh."

"And I know that sounds selfish, Buffy, but it's true. It would have been more selfish to be with you when you came back. Ten times more selfish. The world needs me. I've established myself out there."

She looks at him with slightly narrowed eyes. She's not angry, but she's not complacent about his words. "And Cordelia?"

"A mistake?" He offers shamefacedly. "I never told her…" he takes a deep breath, as though he needs it, "I never told her that I loved her. I just needed someone….after. Seeing you, it hurts, Buffy. It's because I care so much about you. And seeing you back from the dead was unreal."

"Seeing you again was the best thing that could have happened to me." Chips of tears are starting to crawl into her voice now, and she knows that he can tell. "I felt-_feel_, feel so alone. When I see you…I can't even begin to describe what it does to me."

"I know," he says, and it comes off tender. "Seeing you after your death loosened what little control that I had. I've become a little weak over the years. Every time I see you it gets worse."

"That bad, huh?"

"No, that _good_. I love you. More than anything I could have thought possible. I didn't know that I had this much love to give. When I saw you, I just lost it. Leaving you again tore into me. I became a different person, forced myself with Cordelia. She's in love with me, I know it, and I forced myself to feel the same way. Just to get you out of my head." He offers her a little rueful smile, and despite the pressure of the tears on her chest, she feels a little lighter as they talk. He grips her chin lightly and forces her to face him. "I love you." She sighs with the words and falls onto him, like he's jello and she's slipping into him.

"What are we going to do now?" She says, feeling the tiniest bit of insecurity creep into her.

"You are going to stop seeing Spike," he says firmly, pulling her against him, hugging her tightly, but not enough to hurt. "And I'll keep you grounded. I'll always keep you."


End file.
